


The Lovers, The Dreamers

by bemusedlybespectacled (ardentintoxication)



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/M, Hayffie, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Torture, Non-Graphic Violence, Post-Mockingjay, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Substance Abuse, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-11
Updated: 2012-04-11
Packaged: 2017-11-03 13:11:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ardentintoxication/pseuds/bemusedlybespectacled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Some people think that you are strongest when you need to be.</i> After the War, Haymitch and Effie try to pick up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lovers, The Dreamers

Some people think that you are strongest when you need to be. Mothers who struggle to open jars find the strength to lift fallen trees from their children's bodies; fathers who shuddered at the sight of a gun find that pointing and shooting it is easy; children who would never dream of death emerge victorious from the stiff, cold arms of their enemies, soaked in their blood.

It's only when you are in the quiet places, the safe zones, where you know no one will ever hurt you, that you break. Suddenly what seemed so effortless haunts you nightly in your dreams. People don't dream in the arena. They have nightmares in Victor's Village.

Haymitch used to have them, every night. He didn't remember the perfect clouds, or the poisoned springs. Mostly he remembered falling to the ground from the effort of living and being sure that the sound he heard was his own cannon sounding early.

Effie used to dream. She used to have dreams composed of clouds and swirling colors and silk and satin and lace, and sometimes a nagging feeling that something was a bit off. Now Effie is the one with nightmares. She didn't dream in the torture chambers, after the electric shocks and the sharpened knives and the screams gave way to pure blackness. Now she does, and she remembers.

He knows what it's like to be alone, which is why he offers her a shot glass and someone to talk to without her asking for it. He offers his bed without her asking, either. He doesn't ask if she knows why they took her when she didn't know anything, because he knows that, too. He was lying when he said he had no one left to kill, no one left to break in order to break him. The Capitol knew them better than they knew each other. Fuck if he couldn't've figured it out sooner.

They don't do anything but sleep, until she wakes up screaming and he's there. This is his new arena, the last revenge of the dead Gamemakers, and this time it's not physical. It's just him, there to be strong for her, because she's never had to be and doesn't know how. Not that he does, either, but he's had at least twenty five years more practice at it than she does. He can't afford his own nightmares when she needs him to tell her that she's safe now, that the Capitol has fallen, that a new government is rising from the ashes. He can't promise it'll be any better than the Capitol, and he can't say he loves her. Not yet.

After a while - after many, many nights of safety and security - she starts to be strong for him. This is her first Games, and she learns every moment of it - his Reaping, his desperate plan, his alliance, his death that almost was. She pries the bottle from his hands and lets him hold her instead.

And after more nights - after he finds her in the fetal position under a table, after she pours all of his liquor down the drain - they're so close that there's no point in pretending anymore. Those last few inches are so charged that, when their lips meet, it's like the torture again, but sweet and beautiful and perfect.


End file.
